


I Run to the Sea

by wildwinterwitch



Series: Driftwood [8]
Category: Broadchurch, True Love (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Series 1 Episode 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwinterwitch/pseuds/wildwinterwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alec gets postcards from Holly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Run to the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Sinnerman_ by Nina Simone

He stared at the collection of postcards spread out in front of him. They’d all gone a little soft around the edges, and a few had wrinkles in them. On one of them, he knew, the one from Alba, the ink had run, making the words almost impossible to read.

Supporting himself with his left hand on the table in the interrogation room, he picked up a card showing a beautiful landscape. It must be very inspiring, he thought, glancing at the gently rolling hills full of vineyards, the town perching on the hilltop and the bluish mountain range in the distance. He wondered how much of her time she spent painting — drawing. He closed his eyes and imagined the dry air, the warmth of the sun on his eyelids. He was good at that. He used the technique to keep the pain at bay when neither the chemicals nor the case could.

_Dear Alec,_

_It’s beautiful here. There are so many things I think you’d enjoy. Like the mountains. They give the eye something to rest on, unlike the sea._

_Love, Holly x_

Despite his silence, she kept in touch and she continued to honour their deal. She sent him a postcard every day, it seemed, but they’d not arrive in the order she sent them. Some arrived long before others, and there were days when he got none at all, and others when there were several waiting for him.

Her short messages made him smile. He actually enjoyed most of the thoughts she shared with him. He kept the collection of cards in the breast pocket of his coat, where they were like a shield for his heart, a cardboard one, but better than a bulletproof vest.

Producing his smartphone from the pocket of his trousers, he drew up her number. His thumb frequently hovered over the screen, ready to make contact with her, but something kept him.

It wasn’t the shame the newspapers had submitted him to after they had hounded Jack Marshall down. It wasn’t the case that kept him busy — far from it. It had stalled, to the point where he expected the super to cut back his funding any day now. It was his fear of being unable to let go of her. She was making it quite hard for him anyway, sending him all these cards.

He drew up one of the plastic chairs and sat heavily, digging in his pocket for his pills. He was afraid of himself, for himself, of giving himself to her and — well, what? She was clearly the sort of woman who invested in relationships but, despite the number of postcards she’d sent, she didn’t strike him as the clingy type. He had the idea of being her kite string. 

There was one card that she’d started to address to someone whose name started with K. She’d scratched out the K and replaced it with an A, apologising in a rare postscript.

He stared at the dark screen of the mobile. It was high time he used the camera for something other than quickly snapping pictures on scene.

Gathering the postcards, he pocketed his phone and headed outside.

“Sir?” Miller asked, looking at him askance.

“I need a breath of fresh air,” he said, stowing the postcards in their pocket in his coat.

“Sure, I’ll… um. Was just wondering if you’d like to have dinner again, of a night? Joe’s looking for a guinea pig that’s not married to him,” she said, smiling winningly.

He blinked and took a deep breath. “Aye, why not?” With a crisp nod, unwilling to give her the chance to set a time for dinner, he headed outside, pulling his coat on.

The beach was empty. A combination of grey, gloomy weather and tea time meant that he had it to himself. He’d meant to eat before he took his medication, so he headed for a mobile chippy instead and bought dinner. The small van by the police station had by far the best chips in the area, and he was grateful that it was so close. The owner, Ron, was clever enough to consider the coppers his best clients.

Finishing his meal, he went to the beach, ance once there, headed in the opposite direction of where Danny’s body had been found, although his way would take him past Susan’s trailer.

The pebbly sand crunched beneath the thick soles of his shoes, and he breathed in the tangy air consciously. The crisp air filled his lungs to bursting, but he took a few deep breaths anyway, enjoying the wind in his hair.

After a while, past the trailers, he reminded himself that he was taking a walk, and slowed down his pace, taking in his surroundings. Walking further down to where white froth glazed the pebbles, he ran a hand through his hair while the other fingered the piece of sea glass in his pocket.

Holly’s parting gift, or peace offering. The latter, he had decided, once she’d waved at him from a window at the school. If he found a piece of sea glass, he’d send her a photo of it, and keep the item itself safe for her to collect. If she still cared.

Receiving the card originally intended for K made him wonder if they were really for him or if he was just a sounding board for her.

Ducking his head, he promptly found a shard, softened and dulled by the friction against the pebbles in the ebb and flow. It was yellow glass, and he smiled at having found such a treasure. He took a picture of it, with dissolving bubbles around it, bubbles that soaked through his shoes, and sent it to Holly, hoping she’d get it in Italy. He added a short text message as well, just to make sure. Who knew, maybe K sent her pictures of sea glass too.

What a silly thought.

She had lost K. Of that he was sure.

_Found this and thought of you, Miss. Miss you. So much. X_

He sent the message unedited.

He did miss her. He’d often wake to the memory of her scent in his nose, or the softness of her skin against his. Her wet warmth. Her kiss. Her smile. Her kindness and her thoughtfulness.

He touched his bulletproof vest. What was he afraid of?


End file.
